Her Fingers, Piano and Light

 

Her fingers on the piano keys:,

nails red as rose-hips, 

                                                                                   

in net of cigarette smoke filled 

with afternoon sunlight.

Notes like sequins

falling inside the canyon of childhood;

                                               

brass, silver and mahogany,

ashtrays and antimacassars,

Liszt her gold tooth, she smiles; 

the music climbs jangly from the piano,

filling the room till the walls fall and she 

dissipates in deforming contours of smoke. 

I write to catch it,

but may as well be catching steam.